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Nonfiction

Company Van

We stop washing the company van and take a break as the rain starts to downpour. I’m the oldest shop boy at 23, and while the others start shooting hoops and slamming PBR, I sit and watch. They seem so self-assured. Even when they tell you, “I don’t care,” — which they do all the time — they do it as if they’re planting a flag in an unknown territory. “I don’t care. This is mine. Alley-oop!”

Earlier today I spent over an hour stressing about the 60-year-old mechanic being a better writer than I am. It’s not the first time, and I know it’s not the last. If I could just force myself to sit down and work on my future instead of worrying about it, I’m sure I’d be better off. I could be calm enough to make small talk, drink more than one beer, or actually write something.

I always think about what my life would be like if I had chosen a different path – gone to school out east or stayed broken-up with my high-school girlfriend. How famous would I be? How many women would I have slept with? I’m rich from inheritance, but still. The other guys are now in the zone, calling out coverage, wet t-shirts sticking to their shoulder blades. I better go finish the van — they’ll probably be playing for a while.